


as my lord commands

by wearing_tearing



Series: Sterek Prompt Fills [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Angst and Feels, Blacksmith Derek, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearing_tearing/pseuds/wearing_tearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you are highborn,” Derek says after a few minutes. “I should be calling you ‘my lord’.”</p><p>Stiles makes a face at him.</p><p>“You do that and I’ll piss in your boots.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	as my lord commands

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from [tumblr.](http://dylansneck.tumblr.com/post/93346267679/sterek-game-of-thrones-au) prompted by anon: game of thrones au.
> 
> in which stiles is arya and derek is gendry.
> 
> **i do not give permission for any of my works to be added to or shared on other websites such as goodreads.**

Stiles fingers tighten against the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white, body tense with barely restrained anger.

“Oh, you like picking on the lanky ones, do you?”

Stiles doesn’t take offense, instead just watches as the man in front of him bumps into the fat boy that just minutes ago tried to take his steel from him. His lips want to curl up in deep satisfaction at the fear in the boys eyes, even though he doesn’t appreciate someone else coming to his rescue.

The man is only a few inches taller than Stiles but broader, stronger. His skin is grey with dirty, black hair matted to his forehead with sweat, and he looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while.

“When I hit steel, it sings,” the man says, eyes flashing. “Are you going to sing when I hit you?”

The fat boy runs.

“That was not necessary,” Stiles looks up at him. “I happen to like killing fat boys.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him, eyes going to Stiles’s sword.

“Castle forged steel. Where did you steal it?”

“It was a gift,” Stiles says, voice somber, mind going to the moment Scott presented him with the sword, a happy smile gracing his face.

The man gives him an unconvinced look.

“It doesn’t matter. Pickpockets, murderers, highwaymen. They’re not going to care about that where we’re going.”

Stiles blinks, tilting his head. “Which one are you?”

The man’s face turns blank and, without saying a word, he gives Stiles his back.

*

“They don’t scare me,” Stiles says, glancing at the three man locked in the prison carriage before turning to Derek. “And neither do you.”

The man— _Derek,_ as Stiles has learned once they started making their way to the North—looks back at him and snorts. “Then you’re stupid.”

Stiles bristles, but the sound of horses coming distracts him from doing something like grabbing one of the logs Derek is carrying and hit him in the head with it.

And that’s a good thing, because it gives Stiles time to hide as soon as he sees two guardsmen from the City Watch draw near.

His entire body turns cold with dread, and at Derek’s confused expression he answers, “They’re looking for me.”

There’s a question in Derek’s eyes, one he doesn’t voice, but not because he’s trying to spare Stiles the trouble of explaining.

Not that Stiles knows how he’ll tell him about the King coming to his home, the trip to King’s Landing, Scott bounding off to the Night’s Watch, and his father being made Hand of the King only for Stiles to watch him get murdered for his services to the crown.

Derek doesn’t voice the question because Stiles is wrong.

The name the guardsmen say when they tell the men they’re looking for one of their own isn’t Stiles.

No, the name is Derek’s.

*

“What did they want with you?” Stiles asks him as soon as he has the chance.

“No idea,” Derek replies, lips turned down.

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

“You’re lying.”

“You shouldn’t insult people who could rip your throat out with their teeth.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Then I wouldn’t get to insult anyone.”

Derek shakes his head, not bothering to look up at him.

“I don’t care what they want,” Derek says quietly. “Nothing good ever comes out of people asking too many questions.”

“Questions you know the answers to,” Stiles narrows his eyes. “So you _are_ lying.”

Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Who ever thought someone so skinny would be such a pain in my ass?”

“You joke,” Stiles gapes, startled. “You just made a joke. In very bad taste, but still a joke. Also, I’m not skinny.”

Derek lips twitch briefly before he turns serious again. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Stiles says lightly, picking at the hem of his shirt.

“You thought they were after you,” Derek considers him. “Is that the reason why you’re lying about not being highborn?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, a few seconds too late.

“And you say I’m the liar,” Derek huffs.

Stiles gulps.

He can feel his heart in his throat, his palms starting to sweat as Derek keeps _staring at him,_ waiting for him to say something.

He shouldn’t. He _knows_ he shouldn’t, but there’s something about Derek that tells Stiles he is worthy of trust.

His father used to say intuition was important. He taught Stiles to trust his heart, because sometimes a man can’t only value what his eyes see, for lots of things in this life aren’t what they seem to be.

It appears that’s what Stiles is going to do now.

“No one can know.”

“I thought as much,” Derek nods.

“Stiles isn’t my real name,” Stiles says, licking his lips. “It comes from my last name. Stilinski. Of House Stilinski. I’m going North in hopes of finding Scott, my brother.”

“Your father was the Hand of the King,” Derek says, putting the pieces together. “The traitor.”

“He was _never_ a traitor,” Stiles hisses, leaning into Derek’s space.

Derek stares at him, unflinching.

It takes him a few seconds, but his eyes soften a little.

“Okay.”

Stiles swallows, nods, takes a step back. “Okay.”

“So you are highborn,” Derek says after a few minutes. “I should be calling you ‘my lord’.”

Stiles makes a face at him.

“You do that and I’ll piss in your boots.”

“As my lord commands,” Derek says flatly.

And if Stiles wasn’t already looking, he’s sure he would have missed the faint smile forming on Derek’s lips.

*

“We have to fight!”

Stiles trashes in Derek’s hold, trying to get himself free. He’s only managed to free a few of the prisoners trapped in a burning carriage, and he needs to go help the others.

He can hear the harsh sounds of fighting outside, the men traveling with him and Derek battling against a group of guardsmen that found them in the night.

“We have to _hide_ ,” Derek breathes against the back of his neck, dragging him away from it all and into the woods surrounding them. “Do you have any idea what they’ll do if they realize who you are?”

Stiles bites at the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood, because he knows.

He’ll either be dragged back to King’s Landing and live at the castle as a hostage or they’ll kill him. If the first one happens, maybe the Queen or her grandfather will even try to marry him off to someone from the family so the Argents can grab hold of his home, of Winterfell, of the North.

They might be here for Derek, but Stiles can’t take the risk of being found.

But he hesitates.

Just for a second, he hesitates.

And a second is enough for one of the guardsmen to find them.

*

The guardsmen arrange all the men side by side, mouths set in a sneer as they stare at them.

“We’re looking for a name named Derek,” one of them says, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Give him up or we’ll start taking eyeballs.

Stiles’s heart is beating frantically, jaw clenched as he waits for one of the men or boys in line with him to speak up.

They don’t.

And Stiles takes a chance.

“You want Derek?” Stiles asks, proud of how steady his voice sounds and ignoring the way Derek tenses beside him. “You already got him.”

Stiles glances at the body of one of the man they killed just a few minutes before. He’d been shot in the leg with an arrow, making it impossible for him to run, and when one of the guardsmen saw him trying to crawl into one of the bushes near by, he stuck a sword through his stomach.

No one corrects him, not even when they can all plainly see the displeased look on the guardsmen’s faces at knowing the one they’ve been looking for is dead.

And the back of Derek’s hand brushes against his, his pinky finger tangling with Stiles’s own.

*

The place they’re taken to smells like death, and both Stiles and Derek have shackles on their wrists.

A light rain falls, Stiles leaning against Derek’s side as they sleep, huddling for warmth.

*

They find out Derek can make armor and weapons and put him work, his arms glistening with sweat and skin covered with soot. He has a thin shirt on, always has a shirt on, fabric clinging to his chest as he shapes steel to his liking.

Stiles watches him, chewing on stale bread, and tries to ignore the way his skin tingles and his cheeks flush whenever Derek raises the hammer above his head.

*

A few days later, and with a little bit of help from a man whose face changes with the swiftness the sky changes color, they escape.

*

“The man who helped us,” Derek prompts, eyes scanning the woods around them. “Explain him to me.”

“The prisoners I freed,” Stiles mumbles. “He was one of them. I saved him and two others from death, so three deaths I was owed.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Not a lot of things do, these days.”

“So you just had to give him names?” Derek stops, turning around to look at him. “Any name and he’d killed them?”

Stiles nods, avoiding him stare.

And next thing he knows he’s being crowded against a nearby tree, bark pressing roughly against his back, Derek’s furious gaze locked on his.

“You could have picked _any name_ ,” Derek practically growls at him. “You could have picked _anyone_ and you chose to name the guards guarding the castle at night.”

“I—,”

“Gerard Argent,” Derek spits. “ _Kate Argent_. You could have had them killed and you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” Stiles hisses, pushing at Derek’s chest with a hand even though he doesn’t budge. “I _couldn’t_. It wouldn’t do us any good to have to the Queen’s grandfather and her aunt killed while we were both stuck in the middle of nowhere pretending to be people we aren’t.”

Derek blinks, confused. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no sound comes out.

“I chose the man,” Stiles shrugs one shoulder, trying to appear like he doesn’t feel a slick of shame and guilt about it. “I gave him his own name so he was forced to help us escape. He did, so I took his name back.”

“What,” Derek says faintly, his nails digging into Stiles’s shoulders.

Stiles likes to think he would have felt more in terms of satisfaction at the disbelieving look on Derek’s face, but he finds that right now he doesn’t.

“I told you wouldn’t do us any good while we were both stuck in the middle of nowhere pretending to be people we aren’t,” Stiles gives him a pointed look, sliding one hand up Derek’s chest, past his shoulders, and to his back.

“Stiles,” Derek tenses, making to take a step back before Stiles wraps his other hand around the back of Derek’s neck and keeps him in place.

“You always keep your shirt on. Even when you work and the heat is almost unbearable,” Stiles starts. “You’re careful about it. Almost like you have something to hide.”

“Don’t,” Derek says harshly, but doesn’t try to move away.

“That’s because you do,” Stiles gives a sad smile. “The mark on your back. The _triskele_ of House Hale. If you don’t hide it, the Argents will come to finish what they started, won’t they? They’ll come to kill the last of the Hales and make sure no one tries to take King’s Landing back from them.”

“ _They killed my entire family_ ,” Derek’s lips pull into a snarl, rage back in his eyes so fast Stiles thinks he should be afraid.

But he isn’t.

He knows he’s not the one who has anything to fear from Derek.

“My father tried to find you,” Stiles tells him, heart clenching at the mention of his dad. “There were rumors of a survivor, a little boy of House Hale that Queen Talia managed to hide before the Argents burned everything to ashes and took the Iron Throne.”

“She did,” Derek smiles bitterly. “I grew up in an alehouse with a woman I didn’t know pretending to be my mother, hidden right under everyone’s noses. Or so I thought, until your father came along.”

Stiles reels back, mouth gaping. “What?”

“I was a blacksmith apprentice to one of the masters who supplied the King with armor,” Derek explains. “When King Christopher named your father Hand right before his death, it was only a matter of time before he stopped by.”

“He knew who you were,” Stiles whispers, fingers curling against Derek’s shirt. “He figured it out and they had him killed.”

“Gerard and Kate aren’t fond of people who threaten their plans,” Derek points out kindly.

“And now they know who you are, too. That’s why you were going North. Men of the Night’s Watch don’t serve any King.”

“You’re not as stupid as I thought you were.”

Stiles ignores the joke, anger and grief burning hot and bright in his chest.

“Come to Winterfell with me,” Stiles says, pulling Derek closer. “We haven’t heard word of my death of talk of a reward for anyone who finds me, so they’re keeping my disappearance quiet. That means the castle is still mine.”

Derek shakes his head. “Who says your father’s men will recognize you?”

“I take after my mother,” Stiles tells him. “Trust me, they’ll recognize me.”

“And what do you expect me to do? Go with you and reveal myself as the rightful heir of the throne?”

“Yes,” Stiles says fiercely. “The people never liked the Argents. King Christopher did his best to rule after your family died, but the means they used to take the throne have always been seen as an atrocity by the people. Now with him dead and his daughter ruling with her grandfather and aunt pulling at the strings, people are scared. And more, they are angry. And after what they did to my father, someone known in the Seven Kingdoms as a just and honorable man, I think it’s possible they all might be angry enough to helps us fight back.”

“Us?” Derek asks, raw and vulnerable and like he never imagined someone would want to help him get what’s his back.

Stiles brings one hand up to cup Derek’s cheek, the other pressing against the mark between his shoulderblades.

“If you think I’m letting you go, then you _are_ as stupid as I thought you were.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Derek says, leaning into the touch.

“I want to,” Stiles rests their foreheads together. “It’s time for you to have that piece of your family back.”

Derek’s hands run down Stiles’s side, stopping to clutch at his hips.

“I never really had a family.”

“I can be your family,” Stiles murmurs, breath ghosting Derek’s lips.

And Derek answers by kissing him.


End file.
